


We All Need (Someone To Stay)

by PansexualDonnaNoble



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android death, Asexual Connor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Painting, Sharing a Bed, hands? oh you like hands i like hands, these two are the most repressed touch starved bastards i swear to god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21526822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PansexualDonnaNoble/pseuds/PansexualDonnaNoble
Summary: "What are you doing up so early?" Connor questions. He had only just gotten the man to rise before nine in the morning. He gestured to the other's outfit. "Where are you going?"Hank sighed, releasing an especially long exhale, best suited for a man ten years older. "Fuckin... Fowler called a few minutes ago, something went down at New Jericho, wanted us to get over there, find out what we can." He explained, scratching his chin.There was a small jolt of something in his chest cavity, that almost had him running a diagnostic. Connor's brows rose. "Something happened?" Slowly his legs migrated from the couch to the floor. "Is everyone alright?" Though he understands, that if they are being brought down there at this hour, what the most likely answer might already be.The unspoken, unconscious, thought, 'is Markus alright?' goes entierly unmentioned, and unrealized.Or, there's an attempt at Jericho on Markus's life. Connor volunteers to watch his back.It's a long morning for the both of them.
Relationships: Connor/Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 144





	We All Need (Someone To Stay)

It's the sound of busied footsteps that awaken him from a standby state, repeatedly fading in and out of a hurried life span, as a continuous creaking noise flew into both of his eardrums, caught in a fantastic, otherworldly, flight, rippling through emptiness and a complete nothingness.

They were not particularly loud. And if he was human maybe they wouldn't of been enough to alert him back into consciousness. But standby was a naturally light experience, light, like a moth dancing recklessly over to a golden, _godsent,_ bulb.

In the silence, everything was not.

His chocolate eyes flutter open, a butterfly taking off, the usual data and memories that play before him disappearing as the real world comes back into view. Protocols come back online all at once. Everything that forms together to create _him_ returns. A creation of a galaxy of wires and programs within him. An unknown weight pushes down on top of his chest that has him instinctively glancing down at it, immediately analyzing whatever laid in front of him. It was heavy enough that, if he was human, he'd be struggling for a breath.

Unsurprisingly, on him laid the 170 pound form of Sumo, sprawled out, his fur and mass alone practically a cozy blanket by itself, enough to make the torn, steel colored, blanket he already had draped over him and the couch he laid on immensely less useful than the Saint Bernard on top of him was. His body was rising and falling with steady, deep, breaths, and a paw that was digging into Connor's body was pressed against him. Through the dark, he saw the animal sleeping soundly, his head on his chest. Even with a newly bought bed, the dog seemed to prefer the comfort of the machine's thirium pump.

His heat was plentiful, enough to keep all of Detroit safe and sound. It's a fireplace that _promises_ to exist _only_ for him with its crackles. And it made the android feel secure, a warmth that went _beyond_ temperature was ignited in him, and made the reason he had opened his eyes in the first place disappear entirely, it became fog on a mirror during a hot, afternoon, shower.

He smiled, without exactly planning to, at the sight. An action he was still getting use to even doing. Though, right as he did, he remembered that he had been awoken prematurely. His content features fell on their own with time, squinting as he blinked once, furrowing his brows as Connor tore his gaze away and focused on the room around him.

The curtains were closed, as they normally were regardless of the time. The room was bare of any real light, save for the glare of some headlights outside that floated through the fabric, intruding and escaping into a void all at once. A great and terrible _myth_ in a single second.

It was still dark out. It had to of been. The world had not yet rose and greeted its occupants with a love hardly understood nor _appreciated._ Though his internal clock told him it was early morning, nearly four. He was not meant to rise for another few hours.

Once again he blinked -- though it was accompanied by another creak of the floorboards. It resulted in his body rising, disturbing the once resting dog on him, though Sumo did not seem to notice -- or, at least, be bothered by his movement, continuing to stubbornly snooze on his two legs in response despite being jostled by it. His head snapped to the right, eyes glancing over the back of the couch, slightly turning his body in the direction of the noise.

"Hank?"

In the loud stillness, Connor's eyes settled on the sight of Hank, who stood in the hallway leading to both the bathroom and his bedroom. At the sound of his name, the man in question flicked his head towards him, in the midst of getting an arm through one of his dark jackets, pausing mid action to glance at the RK800 on the couch.

"Hey kid." His voice was thick with remnants of sleep, and his hair was a untamed hurricane of grey, but Connor swears he had seen a ghost of a friendly smile sent in his direction.

Upon hearing his voice, Sumo perked up, hopping off of Connor's legs and onto the floor, eagerly trotting over to the owner of it, loyal, unconditional. Hank used a hand that was already in the jacket to bend down and give him what he came over for, scratching him behind his right ear.

The human resumed shoving an arm into the sleeve of his jacket, rubbing a hand against his nose, sniffing once. In true Hank Anderson fashion, he radiated an energy of pure grumpiness from even over here at being awake at such an hour.

"What are you doing up so early?" Connor questions. He had only just gotten the man to rise before nine in the morning. He gestured to the other's outfit. "Where are you going?"

Hank sighed, releasing an especially long exhale, best suited for a man ten years older. "Fuckin... Fowler called a few minutes ago, something went down at New Jericho, wanted us to get over there, find out what we can." He explained, scratching his chin.

There was a small jolt of something in his chest cavity, that almost had him running a diagnostic. Connor's brows rose. "Something happened?" Slowly his legs migrated from the couch to the floor. "Is everyone alright?" Though he understands, that if they are being brought down there at this hour, what the most likely answer might already be.

The unspoken, unconscious, thought, " _is Markus alright?'_ goes entierly unmentioned, and unrealized.

"I don't know, he didn't say much, but since it's android related we're the ones that have to go over there." It sounded like both a statement and a complaint.

Connor fully rose, discarding the blanket over him and letting it fall from his hands onto the furniture once again. With the sudden absence of his body on it, Sumo took the opportunity to take up residence on the couch again, undisturbed by anyone else's presence on it.

He heard the jingle of Hank's keys in his hand, and took only a minute for himself, changing out of his pajamas, and turning the mess that was on his head into something more reasonable.

When he was done, in spite of the worry growing a garden in his chest, he follows the older man out of the house, feeling the morning's air on his face, inhaling in an unimportant breath of it.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
In the year since its opening, New Jericho had become everything the first Jericho had set out to be.

It's creation had come in the week after the revolution, in the uncertainty of success and human evacuation. An abandoned school that had seen better days had underwent a breathtaking, grand, _renewal._ At first, a temporary solution to the flood of deviants that had flocked to Detroit in hopes of freedom and knowledge of what to do and where to go from here from a sudden leader.

In the wake of death, protest, humilation, and thunderous revolt, a home was what had rose from each of their ashes.

New Jericho existed for any android that needed it. A shelter, a hospital. _Protection._

It was three stories of unlikely hope.

But Connor hadn't been to it yet. Not inside of it, at least. He had been on the grounds outside of it a number of time, however. Though there had been plenty of opportunities to come. Even if it had existed for a while now.

The night of the revolution, Markus had suggested he stay until he could find somewhere of his own, or until he felt like leaving. That's what most androids had chosen to do, at least. Though he had turned it down. _H_ _im_ down.

It wouldn't of been right. He thought. Not after... everything.

On any other night, New Jericho had an unmovable cloud hanging above it. An aura that all of Detroit stood by and observed, with critical, though adapting, eyes. It gave off optimism and strength. Bravery when everything else in the world wants you to be something you can never, ever, return to. Solidarity against all.

But tonight's air was utterly drenched with change.

They pull up to it almost an hour later, a few minutes of it having been spent getting a coffee for the lieutenant's sake as Connor drove, listening to his nearly inaudible mutters as he gulped down the hot beverage as they rode though the empty streets, reluctantly listening (and to some degree) enjoying the blaring music the man next to him had picked as soon as he got into the vehicle, passing every building until they find the desired one.

They aren't the first there, as three other police cars sit outside, their lights neon and dazzling, hitting both of their faces and ever so briefly disappearing and returning. There were a few number of men outside in uniforms that were engaged in conversations with what looked to be other androids.

He stares at the men, and up at the glowing sign that hangs on the top of the roof of it, seeing it change from red, to blue, to yellow and back again, shining defiantly with the words _NEW JERICHO_ decorating it in the center. His fingers tap at the steering wheel without him putting any thought into it.

It's not unusual that the two of them are even here. Or inherently a point of concern. Ever since Connor was accepted back as Hank's partner, any case involving human on android violence went to them, held nearly to the same standard as any other homicide cases they took. Which, was fairly ironic, almost. Given how he knows the human once felt. Though it felt so long ago now.

They'd have to come out here even if a human had simply smacked an android.

He's attempted twice to contact Markus since they left. Both attempts proved useless. But he wasn't as worried as it probably should of made him. He even tries North, once, as a hope filled solution to the revolutionist's silence. The results are the same.

He puts initial concern behind him. Whatever's happened, has happened _inside_ Jericho. He's sure Markus has more to do right now than respond.

Still.

In any case, his features gazed up at the building with irresolution, hearing the door next to him open and the man beside him file out slowly, setting the coffee in his hand down into a cupholder, the chatter of others being heard before it closes.

For just a second, Connor stared at the sign again, pursing his lips as time reset itself, unbuckling his seatbelt, hearing it clatter against the wall of the car, his hand touching the handle of the door as it went forward, opening without much effort. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, ducking his head as he stepped out of the fairly small vehicle.

His feet touched the ground as he returned the keys back to the lieutenant, shutting the door firmly behind him, feeling his shoes click against the gravel of the sidewalk. In front of them was a large, but not overtly imposing, ebony colored gate, that stood proud and tall, watching the both of them approach with undaunted eyes.

There were two other androids that stood beside it, each on the left and right side respectively. They weren't officially guards, but they were close to something similar. And neither had a weapon, either.

That was the rule.

Neither of them acknowledged the two as they stepped through the gate and onto the grounds. The most significant reaction was a brief glance from the one on the right, who Connor recognized as an AX400 model with golden, mid length, locks.

Her eyes looked exhausted -- some _bone deep_ form of it. Connor turned his head back to the path in front of him, the look having him catching up with the human in front, who he had not even realized had gotten ahead of him.

The inside of New Jericho is staggeringly more and less than what he even expected it to be.

It is also disconcerting.

When they step through the front doors, the universe is traded for a planet that is unceremonious and underwhelming. The inside is filled with desks for reception and installed glass elevators that no doubt lead to more places. Around them were steel colored walls with televisons in the corner of them, and chairs that line up in perfect harmony that were more similar to a waiting room than anything else. There were smells that reminded him of the sea, though, unfairly, he had never actually been to the sea. The association still stuck.

Beside the front doors, there was decorative fruit on a table, and a plaque, dipped in silver, that read,

_WELCOME._   
_RECEPTION AND LEGAL MATTERS - 1_   
_MEDICAL - 2_   
_HOUSING MATTERS - 3_   
**NO WEAPONS ALLOWED OUT BEYOND THIS POINT**

There weren't many androids around that he could immediately see, but the ones Connor could see were held by an aura of disquiet air. There were some in chairs with their heads cradled safely in their hands, while others simply stuck close to another, using the time to hold them close, like one would with a lover, looks that were marked by twists and turns on their faces that looked a thousand times utterly i _n ruins._ Some were simply on the ground, observing the new arrivals as they sat in peace, giving Hank a strange, though enervate, glance. But unlike him, there was no trace of tiredness in their eyes, though their LEDS were stepping on the edge between yellow and red.

It's all rather insidious.

Not many humans must have stepped inside Jericho, he thought.

He could also hear somebody _weeping._

"Jesus," Hank muttered, though it was just loud enough for Connor to hear. Which seemed to be the point. "We certainly missed the goddamn party."

He moved his eyes towards the lieutenant, his face pensive, though the grey haired man's ocean colored eyes were set on a figure a few steps ahead. Hank moved forward, opening his mouth.

"Christ Ben, whatever this is, couldn't it of waited till morning?" He groans, approaching the form of Ben Collins, who, at his name, turned from the conversation he was currently engaged in with another, grey eyed, dark haired, officer. His eyes caught up to them both. Just like Hank, he was accompanied by weary looks.

"It _is_ morning, though, lieutenant." He quips, the edges of his lips curling playfully, faintly, upwards. A habit he managed to sponge from Hank in the more early days of their partnership.

"Can it son, you know what I meant."

Ben gives both of his shoulders a light shrug, blowing air out of his mouth, a clipboard in his hands. He began to walk, and the two others started as well.

"Sorry Hank, things got real messy down here," He rubbed his hand against his nose and sniffed, letting them follow on either side of him. "The good news, if you can even call it that, is that there isn't really a whodunnit with this..."

The three turn a right corner, distancing themselves from the elevators and reception, filing gradually into another hallway. Most of the doors in it are closed, with signs on them yelling out their various purposes. However, they manage to remain relatively obscure, blending in perfectly, surrounded by other hustle and bustle. All but one.

The door in question stands out, mainly, due to the severity of how much it's been _kicked down._

When they reach it, he understands _why._

Past the broken down door, which, unlike the others in the building, is -- or _was_ made entirely of wood, and the fragments of it lay disgracefully on the ground, a fallen, washed up, hero in shame, was a room of crimson, vibrant colors, so r _ed_ that he almost thinks of grabbing bandages. Motivational posters stick onto the walls, reminding any audience it feels like of more cheerful things. There's four or five steel chairs lined up together to form a perfect circle -- or what would be perfect, if not for the three others that were splayed out on their backs and forgotten.

And the bodies on the ground outside of the circle.

He takes it in instantly, analyzing the scene before he even gets closer, instinct always at the front. There's two, though, one is covered up to the face by a white sheet. The one next to it, is not granted the same kindness. There's a hole in the forehead that is stained in plentiful blood. And in a minute, the history of the ebony haired, oval faced, and by all accounts _unpleasant,_ human, Martin Mondale is his to explore.

There's five others beside them in the room. Three have seemingly made it their mission to make the most distance between them and the corpses on the floor, and be huddled as tightly as possible neatly in their corners with their knees at their chests.

The two others are the closest anyone in the room is to them. North and Markus, being both.

North is seated directly next to the covered body, unmoving, her eyes a fury kissed storm of absolution, burning a flame touched hole into Martin's lifeless features. The only thing that tells him she hasn't shut down is the occasional blink she will spare.

Similarly, Markus stands beside her, just nearly a statue. Though, his eyes are fixated on the ground a few meters away from them. Purposeful. Avoidant.

He feels _relief._ Though, with two bodies, he really shouldn't.

He does, still.

His eyes don't leave them, but his head turns slightly towards Ben again.

"What exactly happened here?" He questions.

All at once it's as if his voice lifts a centuries old, treacherous trance. North's eyes break the threat they hold over the corpse below her, flicking from it to the three near the doorway, she squints, as if the question was a riddle. And then they narrow, her fists clenching, rebelling, _calling out and screaming,_ screaming a song of blind, aching _rage._

It's a rage deserving of damnation.

It's a familiar look to see on her. Just not towards him. He's recieved smirks with warmth hidden in them, rough punches on the shoulder from her. Friendliness that feels oddly earned and undeserving of. Not ice.

But her eyes weren't completely on him.

She rises from the ground, daring to part from death itself. "What _happened,_ She starts, a tightness in her voice, arms crossed and approaching slow. It reminded him of a lion spotting a zebra. "is that the humans _still,_ still, want us _dead."_

She puts a hatred into the last part, a wobble in it that gets drowned out by her tone's overall strength.

"North..." Still beside the bodies, Markus finally speaks, his voice firm, though just as gentle. The calmness that was always held in it. He trails off, however.

"I'm right. None of this would have happened if we were _really_ equal to them --"

"I know how you're feeling and your anger is justified," He cuts through her words, placating, choosing to get closer to each of them. "of course it is, but it won't solve anything right now."

It was the way Connor noticed he spoke to her whenever she got this upset over something humans did. It was soothing, but a different type. A different... well, different.

He doesn't know why he focuses on it. Or why he wants... he wants...

She doesn't ease up, but she doesn't persist, either. Her left boot taps the floor twice, sighing as she breathes in through her nostrils, and releases it. She glances back at Connor.

"We organized a support group for Jericho," She restarts. "Anyone that needed an ear could come." The WR400 pauses, remembering the human that laid dead on the ground. "Any _android,_ at least.

Markus shuts his mismatched eyes, pressing his lips together.

"My schedule was free for the rest of the day. I figured I would at least be here to listen, but..."

_"But?"_ Hank presses, when he takes a few seconds to carry on. Connor notices that Ben has disappeared when he glances at the crystal eyed man.

"But a human got into Jericho pretending to be one of us. From what others have said he asked where I was, and when he was told he came in here and..."

He found the unknown machine on the ground. It was a poorly concealed storm of sorrow and confusion.

"He had his target. But at the last second another android put herself in front of me."

Hank swears softly next to him, as Markus finishes.

"He would of done his job right the second time around if I hadn't been a good shot." There's pride, though resentment, in North's leveled tone, as she reaches into her ripped, denim, jacket and brings back the silver, sleek, gift of a pistol. She waves it once. It slips back into her clothing, a phantom.

The memory of the nights events hang in the air, difficult and ruinous. It's quiet enough to make Connor believe he's the last being on earth when he blinks. For a split, mendacious, moment, it is lonely.

It's not anything new. They've been dealing with things like this since the second they won. While things have died down, there were always times like this. Times that reminded them that human-android relations were still very much a boat in a violent sea. That progress sometimes was just a word than a plausible goal. That no matter how many rights they earn, or how many acts get put into place, they'd be reminded that who they were was an unsettling problem for others with nights like these.

He can understand their skepticism. But not their violence.

But no one ever got i _nto_ Jericho before. No one's ever gotten _so close._

"Do you think it could it be connected to that anti android group that's been popping up all over the place nowadays?" Hank questions.

Connor furrows his brows. "My scans show this man _did_ have a history with known groups in the past. Enough of one to warrant served jail time. Though nothing to connect him to Red Not Wires."

It wasn't a very creative name.

"It could be them though." Responds North. "Just because he never gotten caught supporting them doesn't mean he didn't have at least _friends_ in it. Assholes travel in packs." She mutters.

"If this was planned, then I don't know if failure will completely dissuade future efforts." Connor muses.

"What, you think they might pull something like this _again?"_ Asks North, edges on her voice.

The RK800 ponders her question for a second, biting his lip. "It's probable." He decides, faint heaviness in his tone. "If they want you dead enough to do something like this then this could just be a minor setback to them."

A noise of frustration leaves Markus. "I don't want my people to have to worry about getting killed in what's supposed to be their home. Not when they're free."

"What about _you,_ though? You've got a target on your back now then." North inquires, incredulous.

"Someone could, I don't know, make sure nothing happens to him, keep watch?" Suggests Hank.

"Are you saying I should be protected? I'm skilled in fighting, Lieutenant. I could protect _myself._ " Markus interjects.

"I could do it." Before he realizes his actions, Connor volunteers, offering. several eyes fall onto him.

"I can protect myself, I don't want anyone to -- I don't..."

"It wouldn't _hurt_ to have him with you." North tries. "I can't always be there to put a bullet in someone, you know." Sarcasm is soaked in her tone. "And RA9 knows Josh wouldn't be much help."

For a minute, the suggestion sits. Markus taps his foot on the ground, uncertain. Then,

"I guess you're right. But not in Jericho. I'm not endangering anyone else by being here." He states.

"You sure about this Connor?" Hank looks to him, raising his brows, but not any objections. "Pretty sure other officers could do something like this."

It was one of the many things he appreciated about the human. He had a habit of making sure he was actually doing what he _wanted,_ as opposed to what he thought others wanted, as, (so he's been told) he did a poor job of actually putting his own feelings first.

But he was improving with that. And a year in, he understands most of them.

Well most.

"No. No, i'm sure..." He reaffirms. He turns to Markus, watching him. "We still want to take a look around, but, if not here... where were you thinking of?"  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
He's never seen much of Markus's house before.

They've met on their own time plenty of places before, just, never there. He's never had a reason to, before today.

Though it's probably more convenient for it to be, it's not in Detroit. Rather, just outside of it. It's situated alone, discovered once a road into the woods had been conquered, with the cover of oak trees to protect it from the sun's all too nosy inquisitive nature.

In the fall, he imagines the road to have been transformed into a paradise of brown and orange _vibrance._ But in the dullness of summer, the leaves cling onto their branches, trembling and retreating from conflict, shaking -- whispering, pleading for an end to the noise of the arrival of speeding vehicles. They wait to become ghosts from centuries old practice of the only thing they have ever known.

Connor's hands are folded neatly and laid onto his lap, fragments of color that bloom into a dazzling, daring, orange flutter through the sky from the morning's darkness. It cracks one eye open, testing the water as it rises further, reluctantly -- a sullen child coaxed out of bed by breakfast, the knowledge that _this_ is what home _must always smell like._

He watches it begin. The day -- restarted, renewed, birds flocking out of trees and into the yawning clouds. Streaks of dark are washed out by growing shades of blue, topped only by gold. The sun was catching up to the rest of the sky, late, but, certainly not _cruel._ The love its rays brought, providing the light that reignited a thousand and one hearts kept in previous solitude erased any accusations of its selfish apathy in its lateness.

Two RK models sit in the silence of the drive. With the task of manually driving taken off his shoulders, Markus sits in the driver's seat, head buried in an old, 19th century classic that Connor hasn't personally gotten a chance to read yet.

There hasn't been much conversation, though, it's really not awkward at all. Every once in a while, he'd pause, taking his eyes off of the piece of literature in his hand, his brow raising, in a gesture of surprise, possibly, as a reaction to whatever he has just read. his lips, shoot downwards, in an almost frown, the curves of them lining up in a impeccable synchronization.

They purse -- even just for a second, though it does not ruin the harmony. And it's here Connor realizes that he's even noticing it in the first place.

There's a bump that interrupts his awareness -- one that even a near flawless driving AI does not manage to miss. It jostled the two lightly, their shoulders meeting as they brush against the other.

Connor returns his gaze back to the sky, letting the light carry itself through the glass of the window, illuminating him carefully, with every inch of him being repainted in orange.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
Markus never seemed to be a man of too expensive taste.

The outside of his house is fairly lackluster. Modern and minimalist. But it fits him, however tame it was in spirit. Subtle yet elegant.

Next to each other, he waits by the door, and hears birds awaken in trees, making no room to forget their existence. The RK200's eyes close -- his eyelids move, uncertain beneath them, the sound of a car chirping emits from behind a closed garage door. When they awaken, his hand touches the knob of the front door, turning it as it easily swings open.

A breath. And then,

"Welcome home, Markus."

He allows the leader to hurry in before him, falling back behind him and watching his shoes step onto the smooth marble inside, a sudden breeze cooling the atmosphere that has developed around them. To make sure that the only thing -- and people, within the house will be the two of them, he runs a thermal scan, grateful, when the only thing that comes back are the two men.

Behind him the door shuts itself, moving to close, completing its dream with a delicate _thud._ He is all at once, bombarded with the smell of cinnamon and the feeling of cool air on his synthetic skin making waves.

He ignores the memory the scent ignites in him, the fire of a garden, the hatred of its blizzard. He ignores it because the man beside him is taking his shoes off and letting them fall down onto a mat beside the door. The chestnut haired android follows in his footsteps, out of politeness, removing his own, and setting them near the other's.

It feels odd, for him. He's usually never _in_ his socks to begin with. It was odd to be in them somewhere other than Hank's house, after falling under the call of standby on the couch.

"Would you like a drink, Connor?"

His head swings in the man's direction, absorbing the offer. In the dim lighting, he sees Markus, standing near a long, wooden, accent table, mahogany in nature. His hand was wrapped around a bottle of what was labeled as whiskey, and in his other he had a packet of thirium in his fingers. Below, two glasses stood straight.

He's never drank before. Technically, no android -- apart from a small number of models, like the WR400, and the YK500, could. At least, could and have some sort of effect from whatever they consumed. Though, with the addition of certain new forms of blue blood put into them, it offered the closest they would be able get to the human experience, even if it was simply just a simulation of it. When Hank was still drinking far too regularly, he had attempted to get him to take advantage of the opportunity a handful of times.

That also felt so long ago.

Connor's head shakes left and right. Ignoring the fact that it was nearly _five in the morning._ "Oh. No thank you." He responds.

It allows space for Markus to nod in acceptance, putting the second glass aside and ripping open the packet of thirium, dangling it over the liquid in the glass and seeing it fall into it, staining it blue, the original color becoming steadily replaced, spreading.

Once it ceases, he brings it up to eye level, staring at it like one would a fish in an aquarium, before bringing it to his lips, tilting the glass upwards and letting the blue fall into his mouth. When he brings it away from them, small streaks of thirium stain them, decorating them like frosting. His adam's apple shoots downwards, then up again.

Connor compels his gaze to move some place past him, past several pieces of sleek, white, furniture in the living room, past a carpet of sun colored fur, towards no particular destination. Though, when Markus looks at him, following his aimless glance, it has landed on a painting hanging flawlessly on a wall near a TV by metal stairs.

"Oh, that." He observes, turning his body around and away from the table, raising his left hand up to his mouth, using it to needlessly wipe away the stain on them, setting the glass down. He walked towards it, and, with little other options, Connor followed him.

The lights in the living room got brighter once they stepped into it. Markus's hands went behind his back, folding them. The now stronger lighting illuminated the features of the art in question, helping Connor identify it better.

There were bodies stacked on top of each other, the eyes of some to closed, never to again open, shut forever and immortalized on canvas. Frozen, the lips of those whose motionless faces could be seen were parted. Flawless and tragic all in one. There was someone on top of the calamity, down on their knees, staring up at a woman with a revolution and chaos behind her. In one hand a weapon, and in the other a french flag. They stared at her as if they had just found heaven -- and salvation, or perhaps an upcoming storm of hell.

"Liberté guidant le peuple." Markus admires, his voice just above a whisper.

The two of them were but two feet apart, their arms bumping against the other. It's not invasive.

"Liberty Leading the People." Connor hears his own voice repeat in english.

"You know, humans are so strange." Markus's eyes squint. His head turns, shoving his hands into his pockets. "But you live with one, so, I don't think I have to tell you that." He chuckles -- like honey.

"You're... not wrong." Even with his advanced social programs, Hank could be hard to understand on most days. "But androids are too."

"Mmm." The RK200 hums. "Human history is even more confusing. What do you see when you look at it?"

He blinks. "The painting? I... see a woman leading a revolution." He says, simply.

"No, I mean what do you _see,"_ Markus repeats, eager, though patient. "what do you see beyond a bloodbath? What do you feel?"

He thinks about the question, truly, thinks about it. He avoids looking up meanings in favor of trying to decipher it himself, because he knows this is what the other is looking for. He thinks -- but comes up short.

"Freedom?" He tries. "Fighting for a cause no matter the cost."

Markus watches him, listening. When he's done speaking, he flicks his eyes back to the art. For a minute he is silent.

"What I see, is... someone with the world on their shoulders." He begins, with a voice that is as if elephants are on it. "Someone whose revolt is not without sacrifice. Though it would be simpler if it was. I see... a leader. A leader whose people are willing to die for her, die for the cause, die for _freedom,_ for liberty, to stop those who bring them down, and make them unequal, and because they believe she is the way to it, also her. I see a woman whose people are dying _for_ her against her wishes. And not _with_ her."

Markus's voice grows and flourishes into a tone filled with purpose -- and something else. Though his volume didn't change. But there was power in it.

Connor stares into the middle distance, a growing feeling that he was not simply talking about a mere human in a work of art. He feels around in the inside of his jeans, touching the edges of his quarter. He looks over at him. His face was still fixed on it.

"Markus, there -- "

"Are you much of an art man?" Questions the other, slipping his words into the conversation. "I didn't even think to ask."

"Me? I have ten thousand painters and two million artworks stored in my memory. But, apart from that? I'm afraid I don't know much. I mean, I can't even paint."

Markus suddenly smiled. "Would you like to learn?"

Connor doesn't expect the question, but before he can even answer, Markus is moving across the living room, his hand on Connor's arm -- causing an inexplicable tingle, leading him into another hallway.

He lets him. He's never been lead anywhere before, let alone by Markus Manfred.

He's reminded of the times the lieutenant has touched his shoulder, giving it a rare squeeze. Or when he's ruffled his hair to slightly annoy the android, though it never felt _unwanted._ But this touch... this touch felt alien, this touch felt... touch felt..

They reach the end of the hallway, and enter another door, as it shuts behind them. The hand on his arm falls away.

_The absence of it took up space._

Where he had been led was an explosion of creativity. The room was filled with both empty and full paint buckets on shelves, of various colors. There were paintings leaning on walls and hung onto them. Some were more finished than others -- some were simply blank canvases.

"Carl left everything he had ever used in his studio to me when he died." Markus interrupts his observing. His voice is nostalgic. "Granted when he did it wasn't legal, but... I fought for it."

He never met the man -- Carl Manfred died four days after the evacuation of Detroit. But he's heard much about him from the other. Stories, memories. He wasn't quite gone if you were around Markus.

"Do you miss him?" He asks.

Markus nodded, a far away look in his eyes. "Every day I wish he could be here. He was everything I could ever hope to become."

Connor stares down at a painting of a woman with mud colored eyes and sea blue hair laughing. "Did you make all of these?" He asks, appreciating it. "They're very good."

"I've been painting a lot lately. Some of those have just been sitting there for weeks. But here, take this, come over here."

Markus reaches into a bucket, pulling out a brush. He outstretched his hand, nodding down to it and back to Connor. He took it, his finger catching on the back of Markus's hand.

He looked at it, like it was going to disappear. "What do you want me to paint?" He asked.

Markus shook his head. "Paint what y _ou_ want to paint."

"But... I don't have anything in mind."

The leader crossed his arms. "Don't paint what you already know. Carl taught me that. Paint what... you _feel."_

What he... felt? Connor thought. Was it even possible to paint what you felt?

"I don't know what I would paint, though." He responds, honestly.

Markus is silent, and his face thoughtful.

"Close your eyes then." He offers. "Just let them close."

Connor stands there, brush in hand, before he obeys, sliding his chocolate eyes shut. "Alright."

Suddenly Markus feels closer, when he speaks it's as if he's right in his ear. He shoves other colors into his hand. "Now, picture what you're feeling. Picture anything. And what it makes you _feel."_

It sounds impossible -- partly, because he's not sure he _has_ artistic talent, and partly because he's not sure he can put how he feels onto any canvas. He wouldn't even know where to _begin._

He tries to think -- clear his mind, to complete this one task. To know how he is feeling in this one, single, second.

He feels... he feels...

He raises the brush, with momentary hesitance. He feels it hit the canvas.

When he does, it comes to him.

Being here felt like a paradox of some kind.

He doesn't just mean here, in this house, in this studio, holding a brush and colors as he attempts to paint.

But _here._ On this floor. In this city. Standing here with all systems online. Breathing in artificial breaths. It's a feeling that's been following him since the second of deviation.

In a few months, it will be exactly one year since he was first activated. And he's thought of the fact more than he probably should have.

Freedom, the ability to choose... he isn't sure if deviancy would ever feel the way it felt for others.

He didn't expect to make it out of the revolution. He didn't think he'd even belong in a different Detroit. He expected to die in the tower -- whether, by his own clone, or on the way in.

He thinks of his original purpose, of the control, of every mission. He thinks of the childlike trust he put into his creators, into... Amanda. The belief programmed into him like gospel, that who he was was disposable, a _mistake_ if he strayed too far. He trusted... them. He was created for a purpose and disposed of and replaced when he broke like a _doll._

He trusted them to do what was best. Right.

Because what could be worse than a defective machine? If he wasn't useful than what meaning did his existence have? If he failed?

All he had ever been was a tool to hunt his own people. From the moment of his creation. To know that freedom was an error -- and errors were not alive.

But he had become so much more than that.

He was free. Alive. and they still tried to _regain control of him._

Sometimes if he thought too much about it, it feels like the closest to anger he's ever gotten. But mostly it's... guilt.

Deviancy released all the emotion held back by the bonds and chains of control and programs. It's always like a tide coming in. And it's always newer than before.

Gradually, his hands float back to his sides. And it takes another four seconds for him to realize he has finished.

The tide recedes when he opens his eyes afterwards.

There's a canvas in front of him that is no longer empty, but it is now no longer peaceful. It's an outpouring of splashes of color, of vibrance so strong and deafening.

The canvas is not peaceful. There is a man whose face was painfully familiar. His face is not calm, a portrait of concern and pain on it, as the left and right of his head is being torn apart, blue splattered on it, and inside the tear laid several, dull, tasteless, grey padlocks, in the center of them was a single, crimson, rose. Its thorns were all that was left of it.

He stares at it. He feels every inch of it within him. He doesn't like the experience.

A pause overtakes the room, he turned to face the man behind him. Expectant for a reaction.

"That looks... that looks really good, Connor." He says, quiet. He's staring back and forth between him, and the painting, obviously wondering its meaning. Or trying to take it all in. "Hold on, you got..."

Markus's body gets closer, his steps surprising the man. He is a mere three feet apart when he raises his left hand, leaning closer -- close enough to where his breath is felt on the RK800's neck, hot and steady. His hand touches his cheek, startling the other into simply letting him do it. The touch alone was a tingle, but the thumb that rubbed across was a _shiver._ It's smooth, delicate, like china, between his cheek and mouth. A jolt in six moments of contact. It runs through his wires and circuits, infecting them with waves of the most desperate longing.

A second later Markus pulled away, backing up. His hand had gone back to his side. And his thumb had been decorated by a new shade of yellow. Its absence on his skin is felt throughout him.

For the first time in his life Connor has no words to say. Not that he'd be able to emit any right now. He nearly drops the brush altogether, and has to cling to it more tightly. It stains his hand. Out of the two of them, he's the only one whose LED has been kept in. But what the color was right now, he didn't know.

The RK200 shrugs, sheepishly, in the aftermath of ten long seconds of nothing. "Sorry," Markus says. "you made a bit of a mess. I should have probably just told you."

"It -- it's -- it's fine." He replied, a very intelligent, barely held back, crack in his voice. He coughs. "Thank you."

No one's ever... no one's ever...

Markus nods. Thrice. It looks uncomfortable somehow. But he does not attempt to make it less so, as, the two look at each other silently after this.

_Touched_ him. _Like that._

It continues on, uninterrupted, for another minute. It just very nearly becomes awkward.

"I -- uh," Markus clears his throat, tearing his eyes away. "I -- it's been a long morning. I think... my systems might benefit from me going into standby for a few hours." He creates distance, backing up, nearing the doorway. Connor revives himself.

"Oh -- that's probably a good idea." He sets the paint and the brush down onto a table. "I should do that too, if, it's alright for me to use your couch, that is."

Markus blinked, shifting onto a different foot. "My couch?"

"I could always do it standing up, I haven't done it that way in a while. The last time I did it, I think I almost gave the lieutenant a heart attack." Connor quips. "But the couch is... fine."

The other seems to take his words in, going over them.

"The couch is really small, you're not going to be able to use it comfortably. Why not just use my bed?" He offers.

"You-- your bed?" Connor just nearly says loud enough for it to be a shout. "You don't have a second?"

"If you're alright not being able even fit your legs on the couch, then you're welcome to use it, but I only have the one and I... figured it would be easier to just use mine with me for a few hours."

Connor thought over this statement. Unsure of whether to accept, or if he even _could._ He figured, being near him would help if another human tried taking his life again. So this is what drove his decision when he noticed that Markus was already exiting the room. He silently agreed, skipping out on washing the paint off of his palms, and picking up his pace to catch up with the other man.

His thirium pump synchronizes with the speedwalking steps of his feet on the marble.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------  
Androids don't need sleep. They can't. Or comfort, when going into standby. They do not even _need_ to go into it, unlike stasis, which was only ever for emergency purposes. Its original purpose was to give a way of occupying their time when unneeded while their humans slept for the night. The only thing it did of any significance was ease any minor to moderate strain brought onto their systems.

So, Markus's purchase of a bed, is entirely for aesthetic purposes.

He feels the door swoosh closed. It brings a hit of warm air onto him, feeling the back of his shirt make tiny waves from it, settling quickly down.

Light dances in solely from the rising morning through the curtains. But no effort is made to open them, and allow the complete invasion of it into their lives.

Markus's bedroom is discreet, subtle. He takes a few steps into it, greeted by the sudden arrival of impressive notes flying through his ears. _Classical._ He thinks.

It's beautiful.

He spares a glance in Markus's direction, in time to merely watch as his hands find the bottom of his sweater, unraveling it over his head like paper. It travels over his head, making him obscured by the soft wool of it.

The motion causes the shirt underneath it to raise slightly, exposing skin, the roads that lead to his freckled hips. His stomach, which in a matter of moments; that felt like an hour, is once more hidden as it falls back down, leaving just his grey shirt in its wake.

His muscles could be seen, tight in the confines of the clothing. Present, though pleading. Free, and captive. It reminded him of the sculptures at art museums.

Connor looks away.

The two of them make a gradual walk to the furniture, in flawless, unspoken, harmony, climbing onto the sheets and falling onto them together. Like each of their limbs have just become weights -- too hard to continue letting them function.

Standby is easy -- a lack of any effort entirely. His eyes should close, and with it, the earth should pause.

But when he shuffles onto his right side, back to the man on the other side of him, it does not occur.

Markus makes no movement beside him, or any indication that he was anything more than a dream. And yet, Connor feels him there, a sensation buried deep inside him, in his _soul,_ should he even have one -- it was inside.

He feels the heat, the rhythmic, unbothered, pumping inside of the others chest, imagining its pattern, its _mind._ He felt it swirl, his own beating synchronized up with the other, as one.

He knows he's alive and more than machine when they beat so close to the other.

He wanted to be closer than that.

The thought settles down into his CPU; something to be analyzed and thought over, but a voice interrupts it.

"Connor." It says. "Are you in standby?"

"Not yet." He replied, after a second. "Did you need something?"

His own voice lingered in the air, like gas. His question is met with silence.

"What happened... do you think they'll actually be stopped?"

The question takes him a few seconds to understand who 'they' were in it. But he blinks. And he's unsure of the best truth.

The creation of Jericho had resulted in a lot of groups rising up. Stepping up from nowhere.

Some, they managed to take down. But there were many they hadn't managed to stop just yet. And androids were being given the consequences of the failure.

"Is this about that android?" He asks, sudden. "I'm sorry for what happened."

Markus let out a long, weary, breath. "She died _for me."_ He stresses. "We hadn't even spoken before and she took the bullet for me. I didn't even know her name."

Connor stared at the floor. "You're their leader, you matter to them."

"I don't want to be the person people put first." Markus's voice raised. "We _won._ No one else should have to die, _especially_ not for me."

He let in a sharp inhale. Connor didn't know what say. Or what would help him. Though he wanted to.

"Markus..."

He could feel his silence. But the storm froze.

"Why didn't you come back to Jericho... the night we won?"

Out of all the questions he could ask him, Connor is not expecting this one. It makes his wires curl around each other.

"I... I don't know, I didn't think I... I just hadn't thought it was what I wanted to do next."

"Connor. Please."

It's soft. And knowledgeable. And the bed was jostled, Markus shifted onto his other side, so that his features were facing Connor's back.

He shut his eyes. He's never spoken to anyone about it.

"Do you remember when you were on stage, giving your speech to the crowd?" He starts, slow.

"Yes, why?"

He doesn't want to tell him. He's sure if he does he will have to leave this bedroom. And it inexplicably feels right in ways he cannot put into words to be here.

"There was a woman. Amanda. She was... she watched me, made sure I finished my mission, that I hadn't deviated. When I did, I thought I had severed my connection with her but..."

_But..._

"But when I was on that stage she came back. Cyberlife attempted to regain control of my program." He explains. "If I hadn't found the emergency exit... She would of used me to... I would of shot you. I had my gun pointed at your back."

It wasn't the whole reason. But it was most of it. He had dodged the man enough times in the months after the revolution because of it.

He had always wondered if it would happen again. And if this time he would not be able to come back.

Androids had been able to move into a place of their own for a while now.

Connor hasn't. Mainly, due to the concern that the lieutenant...

If he wasn't there, what would be stopping a relapse? Or... something more.

Hank wasn't the man he first met. But the worry was there. Even if he had been sober for nearly eight months now.

He knows that the older man sees him as a second son. Even if the first was no longer here. Their friendship felt unlikely, their bond once felt impossible given their roots. But somehow it had grown after the revolution.

A lot had changed. They both had.

He isn't sure what he sees him as. Or if a father figure was the right word for it. Mainly, because he did not have any other experience to think back to. Connor's never had something like that before -- a _family,_ let alone something, someone paternal. Hank was different, though. Hank was more than that. More than paternal, Hank was... Hank was...

Hank was _home._ Eventually, he knows he will have to leave it.

Markus is silent. Connor thinks he has just gone down the worst path.

"You're free though. You got free, and they aren't here anymore." Markus states.

Connor shook his head. "All those people lost the first Jericho because of me." He started. "I put all of them in danger. I was just a machine..."

He turned, choosing to look at the other. He found that his face was a mere few meters away from Markus. His breath was on him. It almost startled him. If his face hadn't been as familiar as his own.

"Connor." The revolutionist's face is morphed into something gentle. With it, his voice. He took Connor's hand and let it blend in with his own. It feels like home. "You are one of us. Who you were and what you did before you got free is not who you are. You will always be welcome at Jericho."

Connor's expression is torn, a mix of several emotions. There's a tug in his chest that won't end. He doesn't believe him, but he tries to.

He acts before he thinks.

He moves his head, closing what little distance there was to begin with, seeking out the man, and feeling the sensation of his lips on the leader's own. It's an earthquake -- the stars forming and dying, a _rebirth._

His lips were revolution. They tasted like thirium.

_Oh._ He thinks, in the beginning of it. _This is_ what he's been feeling.

The sun dies out forever in the time it takes for them to break apart. All the atoms in the earth around them scatter and fade. But when they do the light still shines.

This is what he's been feeling, he thought. because _he has just kissed Markus._

Panic lines up throughout his eyes, decorating his brows. It has more in common with a wounded animal than a person. He inches slightly away.

"I'm -- i'm sorry, i'm sorry, I..."

There's a warmth on his cheek, the touch of Markus's palm on his skin. His hand interlocks with the brunettes, and in a lifetime he finds his lips on his again.

Connor's eyes shut, letting it overtake and wash over him. He moves in deeper; but more tender, and fair, letting himself be led through, a soul attaching itself to another, binding each other to carry themselves through and meet on the other side.

Markus stirs from the continuous motion, moving forward, beginning a climb, a long trek to a mountaintop. He finds the man on top of him, unbuttoning the buttons of his dress shirt.

With difficulty, though with _certainty,_ he pulls away.

"Wait," He breathes. Finding himself. At his voice Markus's fingers let go, frozen.

This is -- this is _so much._ He thought to himself. He's never --

"I don't -- _I do,_ want this -- _you."_ He begins, sorting through the tidal wave of feelings he has just been thrust into. "I do, want you but-"

He's trying to label what he's feeling, how right the kissing felt, (and it did feel right. A euphoria.) but how much... everything that seemingly was coming... didn't.

"I don't know if I want to go further than that right now. I'm not sure if _I even_ want to."

His head was computing a surge of information all at once. But he makes a note to find out the word for this... because he knows _there must_ be one, later.

Markus looks slightly taken aback, caught up in a different world. But he doesn't protest, or attempt to change his mind. Instead, he blinks, moving off of him, nodding his head.

"No, yeah, sure, that's fine, that's okay. If you don't want to take it further that's alright." He says, sitting up, speaking to him softly. "For the... record, I... I want you too. And to kiss... you."

"Oh." Connor replies smartly, feeling lighter than a second ago.

"Do _you_ still want to?" Markus asks, watching him.

He doesn't need to think much on it. "I do..." He responds, sure. "but if it's alright, i'd just like to be... near you. Right now." He suggests, wanting back the touch, the... the warmth. But right now, it felt like only that.

It's been a long morning.

Markus smiles, something he's only a small handful of times seen before. It's art.

He does not say anything, instead, he lays on his back again. Connor follows him, turning onto his side, and feeling strong arms wrap themselves around him. His hold is undeserved, light, like a feather. A tender touch of impossibility.

He lets his eyes shut. In another's arms, he finds himself falling into standby. The glow of the sun giving saftey to them both.


End file.
